


you construct intricate rituals

by babytriumphant



Series: welcome to chicago, where you are from [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Other, pregame rituals as an excuse to write shipfic, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babytriumphant/pseuds/babytriumphant
Summary: Before every game, Lou tells the future. This is a problem, because splortsball players get superstitious. Enter Baby, whose pregame ritual is literally amnesia.
Relationships: Lou Roseheart/Baby Triumphant
Series: welcome to chicago, where you are from [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935640
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20
Collections: We Are Fanwork Creators





	you construct intricate rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: According to their player profiles, Lou’s pregame ritual is telling the future, and Baby’s is amnesia. Splorts players get a little superstitious about knowing the future before a game, so Lou tells the future to Baby, who promptly forgets it. 
> 
> Baby uses he/she/they pronouns interchangeably. Set in, roughly, the first half of Season 5. Some liberties were taken with Firefighters wiki lore. 
> 
> CW: some foul language; the care and keeping of a dairy cow. 
> 
> Edited 10/19/20 with the update of Baby Triumphant's name. Edited 12/3/20 again because I missed one. 
> 
> Thanks to CoaxionUnlimited and tatertotfox for beta-ing!

The Fire House is slowly filling up with the devoted people of Chicago, here hours before first pitch but here all the same. Baby is leaning against the rail of the dugout, a bag of peanuts in one hand: the weather does not promise peanuts, but, to Lou, this makes sense anyway. 

“Hey, Baby,” Lou says, leaning up against the dugout rail next to Baby. The weather does not promise peanuts; instead, there are an awful lot of birds gathering in the rafters of the Fire House. Lou doesn’t have to know the future to know that she’s soon going to be scrubbing bird droppings off every seat in the Fire House—that’s how it goes, with birds in the forecast. “How’s it going?” 

Baby shrugs placidly and cracks a peanut shell between his fingers. There are a lot of ways the fans see Baby, Lou knows: a baby, an alien, a man: but to the rest of the ’Fighters Baby just looks like a blaseball player; not nearly as average as Kirby, maybe, too short, too striking in the face, too reminiscent of his parent, but broad in the shoulder, strong-armed and stoic, mouth set in an ever-present almost-scowl. “Weather looks okay,” Baby says. “Peanut?” 

“No, thank you,” Lou says. 

Baby drops the shell; it lands on the concrete with a quiet _tap._ “Okay,” they say, and funnel the nuts into their own mouth. 

Lou pillows her chin on her crossed arms on top of the dugout rail and sighs, watching the Magic filter into the away dugout, talking quietly amongst themselves. Soon, the teams will take to the blaseball field for warm-ups; soon, Lou will stand at home base and hold her bat and stare down Yeong-Ho Garcia and try not to flinch, confident in the knowledge that she won’t flinch. 

Fortune-telling is a particular habit of hers. She’s good at it, too; she’s no hack. But the others get weird about it, superstitious, like knowing the outcome of the game is going to change how it’s played. It probably wouldn’t, Lou thinks, but it’s not like they’ve ever gotten to put it into practice. The only person who Lou ever gets to tell is Baby, who forgets what she says before the Firefighters can even set foot on the field: after all, as much as fortune-telling is a particular habit of Lou’s, forgetting things is a particular habit of Baby’s. 

“You ready?” Lou asks. 

Baby considers the question. Lou considers Baby’s profile: a sharp chin, a sharper nose, even sharper eyes. Baby’s brow draws low over those dagger-sharp eyes as she stares out towards the stands beyond the outfield. Doubtlessly, Baby’s dagger-sharp eyes are reading some sort of encouraging sign—not the kind of signs Lou knows by heart, but the ones Baby knows, the ones that say things like BABY SAYS NO and #WAFC and THE WES WIND BLOWS and BURN IT DOWN, FIGURATIVELY.

“Yes,” Baby says. “Five minutes, and I’ll forget.” 

Lou peers into the outfield, too, if only to look away from Baby’s face: it is not nearly so soft as Baby’s name would have one believe, and not nearly as soft as Firefighters fans believe; it is, indeed, rigid enough for Lou to cut herself on, if she looks hard enough. “It’ll be a good game,” she predicts, looking up at the rafters, at the birds gathered there, cooing and squawking and defecating all over the place. “We’ll win. By a decent margin—four runs. I’ll have a few homers.” She pauses. “You’re going to bat .000%.” 

Despite the danger inherent in looking too long at Baby’s face, Lou glances over. There’s hardly any change to Baby’s almost-scowl, just the slightest wrinkle at the corner of her mouth, a tiny narrowing of her eyes. She tucks the bag of peanuts between her belly and the dugout railing to reach up and adjust her ballcap, and then resumes lounging on the railing like Lou hasn’t just told her that she’s going to have a shitty offensive game. 

And, in a way, Baby hasn’t heard anything: in about four minutes, Baby will forget everything that happened today. It’s a coping mechanism, Baby had explained, once, a couple seasons ago, when Justice was still made of marble and Paula still played for them. They’ll forget everything after waking up this morning, in the lonely apartment Lou has only ever visited once, and just play blaseball. That way, they say, they don’t get stuck in their own head about things like superstition and ritual. 

It’s ironic, Lou thinks, that the forgetting is its own kind of ritual. 

“Defense?” Baby asks. His voice is stones. He holds a peanut out to Lou, like payment; Lou takes it, cracks the shell between her fingers and the fleshy pad of her thumb, lets the nuts tumble out into her other palm. 

Three peanuts. 

“Three groundouts,” Lou says. “A couple of good plays, too.” 

“Good,” Baby says, and together, they spend the rest of Baby’s two-and-a-half minutes of memory in silence. 

“I hate you,” Lou says. 

“Moo,” her most hated rival says, and drops her head, her prodigious tongue sweeping over the gathered silage and chop and scooping it into her equally prodigious mouth. The lantern, sitting on the floor behind her hind foot, flickers with a menacing orange glow, and then shifts to the side as Betsy the cow lifts her tail and takes an enormous shit. 

“Oh, disgusting,” Lou says. The birds last week had been bad enough, but the Fire House’s resident cow, secondary mascot, steed, and mortal enemy waits for no such thing as the infrequent weather event to crap all over Lou’s day. It is, in fact, Lou’s day, give or take a few hours, because it’s Lou’s turn to take care of the cow. There is a complicated schedule for these kinds of things. Lou doesn’t care to pay attention to the schedule, just waits for someone to tell her when it’s her turn. 

“Moo,” Betsy agrees. 

Lou stares at the pile of manure, and then at the broad, flat shovel propped against the fence outside Betsy’s paddock, and then at the wheelbarrow, already piled high with poop that’ll eventually be composted to feed the Fire House’s tomato plants, of which there are many. 

“Fine,” Lou grumbles, and grabs the shovel. “Alright, Betsy. Move? Please?” 

Betsy eyes her, watery brown eyes blinking twice before she ambles sideways, allowing Lou to unlatch the gate to the paddock and push her way in. The lantern follows her movement like an eager dog. “Moo.” 

“Thank you,” Lou says, shoves the sleeves of her jacket up, grips the handle of the shovel firmly, and starts scooping. 

By the time she’s done cleaning up Betsy’s feces, the warmth of the afternoon is starting to get to her, a sweat breaking out across her skin. She swipes the back of one hand across her forehead and sets the shovel aside, then eyeballs Betsy’s swollen, milk-filled udder and sighs. 

“Milking time?” Lou asks the cow. 

Betsy blinks again, which Lou takes as agreement. 

Really, for all that Betsy is a thoroughly evil cow, she is quite pretty: brown, with a shiny black nose and enormous dark brown eyes and rings of white around each eye, and a white Chicago six-pointed star in the middle of her forehead. She produces pretty babies, too, that go off to start fires of their own, and in between having babies she produces milk that Baby drinks by the gallon. Lou thinks about pretty things as she drags up a little stool and the bucket for Betsy’s milk and thinks about Baby. 

Her sweaty fingers fumble at one of Betsy’s stout, well-proportioned teats. She tries to strip it the way the original Justice had taught her to, calm and even, but she must pinch a little too hard because Betsy grumbles and swings a leg back. 

The lantern shatters. Lit oil spills over the remains of the manure that Lou didn’t quite manage to scrape off the grass and catches.

_Fuck._

Lou mutters the curses of her grandfather and her grandfather’s father as she wriggles out of her jacket and lunges at the fire. Betsy lows and shuffles to the side, jaw working as she chews her cud. Lou spreads her jacket out and flattens herself on top of the burgeoning fire, slapping at the little embers with the sleeves. 

“Efficient,” Baby’s voice says. 

Lou blows a lock of hair out of her face and says, “Thanks.” 

Another, unbroken lantern appears just behind Betsy’s left hock. Lou glares at it, and then at her mortal enemy, the cow that keeps knocking it over. 

When she sits up again, cautiously pulling her jacket away from the smoking, charred-black grass and manure, Baby is there, hands jammed in his pockets as he watches a safe distance away from their fire-starting steed, the very corner of his mouth tilted up just the slightest bit. “Having fun?” 

“So much fun,” Lou says dryly as she gets to her feet. She holds her jacket out in front of her and wrinkles her nose. It’ll need a good wash—fireproof though it may be, it’s still got grass and oil and cow turd on it. “I did this last week too, y’know. I was planning on spending my day out in the park, maybe, but then Axel comes along and says _Lou, it’s your turn for Betsy duty._ ” She drapes the jacket over the paddock fence, trying not to feel self-conscious in the thin white undershirt they all wear under their jackets. Baby looks comfortable enough with his tied around his waist, but—then again, Baby always looks comfortable. 

“Hmm,” Baby offers. It’s a bit better than Betsy’s mooing, although not much. 

Lou settles next to Betsy’s udder again, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling under Baby’s watchful stare. “I grew up in the 1880s, I do not have time for this shit,” she mutters, and carefully folds her fingers around Betsy’s teat, tugging. “I had better things to do in the 1880s than milk a cow, and I have better things to do now.” 

“It is what it is,” Baby says. The non-response is, actually, one of the things Lou likes best about their relationship: Lou can say whatever she wants, regardless of whether Baby will remember or not, and Baby will just shrug and accept it. She glances over at them, to make sure they’re still there—they are. 

Their hair is a soft, unremarkable brown color; unlike some of their flashier teammates, Baby relies on the power of unconscious suggestion and not on the allure of their own appearance, so they never style it, and it’s almost long enough to fall into their sharp eyes. Lou resists the automatic urge to suggest that they get a haircut for blaseball’s sake—she likes it like this. In the sun, under the bright blue sky, Baby almost looks nonthreatening, which Lou knows is about as far from the truth as one can possibly get, but it’s a nice fantasy. “For fairness’ sake, though, I was never one for milking cows as a child either.” 

“Yeah?” Lou asks, pulling at Betsy’s udder and watching the way Betsy’s flank expands and deflates under coarse brown fur. “What were you doing?” 

Baby squints at the sun, mouth settling into a thin line. “Playing blaseball.” 

Right. Baby has a pedigree—her parent is Knight Triumphant. Last season they’d split the four series they’d played against the Lovers. Lou remembers the way Baby gets tense before Lovers games, uncertain, how forgetting works less when her parent is up to bat—more in her own head. Baby probably grew up playing blaseball, under the bright sun, in the dry inland territories of the Romantic Collaborative of San Francisco, hair unstyled and unremarkable brown, with a mitt that her parent broke in for her. 

“Well,” Lou says, and looks down at the bucket of milk again, slowly filling up. 

“Yeah,” Baby says, and when they leave, Lou glances up to watch them go. 

Baby doesn’t look back. 

They sweep their series against the Breath Mints. In their third game, Lou bats Baby home, and when the game ends 5-1 Firefighters and Betsy sets the stadium on fire, Lou watches from the infield as Baby warily approaches and then, with a lunge like a striking viper, snatches up a thrashing stray hose that’s spraying Royal Crown Malort all over the place. 

“Hey, Lou!” Baby shouts. 

“Yeah?” Lou shouts back, disentangling herself from Rivers and walking towards Baby. 

“You’re on fire!” Baby hollers, and Lou catches them grinning just as Baby aims the hose at her and lets loose. 

Lou shrieks as she gets thoroughly doused with Royal Crown Malort. By the time Baby lowers the hose, Lou is so wet she’s dripping, soaked straight through her jacket down to her skin. “You asshole,” Lou says, delighted, and flings herself at Baby, who huffs out a breath that might be laughter as Lou’s arms wrap around his shoulders and squeeze tight. “You’re on fire, too!” 

Lou’s pretty sure Baby laughs, but over the sound of the fire alarm and the flood of Royal Crown Malort, she can’t be sure. 

It’s feedback weather, and the Lovers are in town. Lou pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders and grits her teeth through the whining hum as it washes over the field, into the dugout. 

In the bullpen, Mullen is warming up, her jaw clenched and Paula’s headband tied around her wrist, muttering promises; Swamuel is scarfing down a generous handful of plain polish dogs, which is objectively horrifying, but Lou’s not about to mess with a pregame ritual; and Baby is perched on top of the railing, their legs tucked up under them as they shell peanuts by the half-dozen. 

“How’s your parent?” Lou asks. 

Baby shrugs, jerky. “I haven’t talked to them yet,” she admits. Lou eyes her out of the corner of her eye: Baby’s hair is getting even longer, now, and tufts out of the sides of her ballcap. Because of the feedback, the roof of the Fire House is open to a wide-open sky. “I don’t want to talk to them until after the game is over.” 

There’s a sign in the section to their right that reads LOU, YOU’VE STOLEN **MY** HEART. The teenager underneath looks like a firebug, which Lou naturally has a problem with, but they look enthusiastic, waving a blaseball over their head, so Lou smiles at them and flashes her glove up. The kid tosses the ball in a sweeping arc overhead in a shallow imitation of a pop fly. Lou snatches it out of the air and says, “Do you have a Sharpie?” 

Baby hands her a Sharpie. Lou signs the blaseball with a flourish and hearts instead of Os. She holds the ball up to throw back to the firebug, who looks briefly conflicted before yelling, “Can you get Baby’s too?” 

Lou glances at Baby, who lifts an eyebrow. “Sure,” Baby mutters, and holds his hand out. Lou sets the ball and Sharpie in Baby’s hand; he signs the ball with a perfunctory _Baby Triumphant,_ in a no-nonsense all-caps. Lou wonders if Knight Triumphant taught Baby to sign his name like that, the same way Knight must have taught Baby to hit a change up, a slider, a curveball, out on the West Coast under the unforgiving sun. 

“Do you want me to throw it back?” Lou asks, and Baby shrugs before throwing the ball back to the teenager, who yells “Thanks!” and clutches the blaseball so tight Lou briefly worries it’ll split at the seams. 

“I’m going to forget in five minutes,” Baby says. 

Lou turns her attention to the Lovers, who are warming up; Knight Triumphant is there in Lovers pink, blowing kisses to the swooning crowd. “I ran away,” Lou says abruptly. 

Baby blinks. 

“I was born in 1882,” Lou says, “and I hated what I saw for myself. In the future, I mean. So I stole a time rift and ran away.” She traces little shapes with the very tip of her pinkie finger along the railing: a catcher’s mitt. A blaseball. Letters: T-R-I-U-M-P-H-A-N-T. 

Baby glances at her, sidelong. “And is this better? Using your talent—” Baby wiggles their fingers. “—to predict the outcomes of blaseball games?” 

“That’s not the point.” She hasn’t decided. In some ways it’s better. In other ways it’s not. Her future is a little fuzzier, now; it’s hard to tell where she’ll be in a handful of seasons, whether she’ll get traded to a division rival or if she’ll be incinerated or get swapped with an alternate universe version of herself. In the 1880s, at least, she knew what she was meant for, more or less, and she hated knowing. Now she’s here, not knowing, and all she wants _is_ to know if she’ll be staying in the lineup, batting Baby home. “I’m just saying. I ran away. Why didn’t you?” 

Baby’s mouth curves downward. Lou watches their eyes dart over to where Knight Triumphant has their arm thrown around Theo King. “I don’t think it’s fair,” Baby says slowly, “to ask me about things when I’m not going to remember telling them to you.” 

Lou exhales, slowly. “I tell you about the future, and you don’t remember it.” 

“It’s not the same.” Baby plunges a hand into his bag of peanuts and cracks several. “That’s superstition, not—not data-mining. You should just—tell me.” 

“I—” Lou starts, and then cuts herself off when Baby turns his sharp gaze on her. “Yeah, I—okay. I just—” 

“I know,” Baby says. “Maybe—maybe later.” 

Lou bites her lip. It’ll be impossible to ask Baby about it later, when Baby has forgotten all about this conversation and will have no reason to believe Lou when she says that they were talking about Knight Triumphant, and Lou can’t help but feel like Baby might be even less amenable to having a conversation about them if she tries. “Okay,” she says, and wipes her palm over the railing, like it’ll erase the invisible word she wrote there. “That’s okay.” 

The look Baby gives her suggests they know Lou’s lying but isn’t willing to say anything about it. Lou tilts her head down so her ballcap prevents Baby from seeing her face. 

“Tell me the future, Lou Roseheart,” Baby says, quiet. 

“We’re going to lose,” Lou says to her hands. “I’ll bat you home but it’s not going to mean a goddamn thing.” 

Baby blows out their cheeks as they exhale. “And is there anything else you wanted to tell me?” 

Lou says, “I hate you sometimes.” The feedback whines in her ears. Baby’s frown gets deeper. “Not the—I mean, not _you,_ I mean. You, right now. The person who forgets.” 

“Oh,” Baby says. And then: “Sorry.” 

“Me too,” Lou says, and that’s that. 

They hold their mid-season Firefighters bash at the Fire House and drink Royal Crown Malort until they can’t see straight, even though Royal Crown Malort contains no alcohol. Lou lays on top of Rivers for a while, who then announces to the entire team that she needs to take a piss and extricates herself, leaving Lou using home plate as a pillow, staring up at the roof of the Fire House. 

Baby sits down in the batter’s box. Lou doesn’t hesitate before wiggling around so she can swing her legs over into their lap. “Hiya, Baby,” Lou says, still looking up at the sky. “What’s up?” 

“Can I ask you a question?” Baby asks. 

“Sure,” Lou says, magnanimous. Baby’s hands find the skin of her ankle, above where the sock ends. His thumb rubs over the knobby bone. If her family all the way back in the 1880s could see, they’d be scandalized; a handful of years ago, maybe Lou would’ve been scandalized, too, but now the touch is familiar, welcome. “Ask away.” 

Baby shifts. At second base, Caleb and Declan are going at it with their swords, like they always do when they’ve got a lot of Royal Crown Malort in them. “I want to know,” he says carefully, “whether Knight Triumphant is going to stay on the Lovers.”

The answer pops into Lou’s head, unbidden, and as soon as it comes it sticks in her head like a piece of gum to the wall of an alley in Seattle. “Baby. C’mon. You know I can’t answer that.” 

Baby sighs. “Yeah, I—I figured. I just.” 

“It’s okay,” Lou says. She feels a little giddy. They’d won against the Shoe Thieves, like she’d predicted, and hosed down with Royal Crown Malort as she is, she feels weightless, floaty. “We can swap other secrets. Besides that one.” 

Baby scoots so they can lay down, too, but they keep Lou’s legs in their lap, keep running their thumb in careful circles along the thin skin above Lou’s ankle. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Lou confirms. “Like—like I think you’re pretty. Very sharp, you could hurt me, but. Pretty. Even if I said I hated you that one time.” 

“Oh,” Baby says, and then: “How much Royal Crown Malort have you had?” 

Lou shrugs. Her shoulders nudge home base. “I don’t know,” she says. “Axel just kinda held the hose up and I went for it.” 

“Ah,” Baby says, and when Lou looks over at her finds Baby looking back. “That’d—do it, I think.” 

“Yeah.” Lou flaps a hand in Baby’s direction. “You need to tell me a secret now.” 

“Is that how this works?” 

“Yeah,” Lou says. “Yeah, you gotta give me one too.” 

Baby exhales. “Okay,” they say. “I think you’re one of my best friends.” 

“Aw, thanks, Baby,” Lou says, and when she looks over again, Baby’s smiling up at the Fire House roof, real and honest. 

They play the Lovers again soon after. 

Lou likes it when the weather is reverb rather than feedback; it’s calmer, even if the lineup changes are jarring, sometimes. She finds Baby at the dugout rail eating peanuts again, and for a while they watch Knight Triumphant play to the crowd, signing blaseballs the same way Baby had the last time the Lovers came to Chicago. 

“When are you forgetting?” Lou asks. 

“Five minutes,” Baby says, the same way they always do. “Go for it.” 

“We’re going to win,” Lou says. “Knight’s going to hit two runs in. But. That’s it, for them.” She watches Baby absorb this: a slight tightening of his jaw, but a little smile in the corners of his eyes, too. “I—I wanted to ask you something.” 

“I don’t think it’s fair to ask me things when I’m not going to remember telling them to you,” Baby says. 

“I know, I just,” Lou says, and bites her lip. “I just wanted to see whether I was—right. About something.” 

Baby turns her head ever so slightly to look at Lou. It’s not sunny out, so her ballcap is on backward; Lou inspects Baby’s face for a moment, admires its angles, the tight knot of Baby’s eyebrows over their eagle-like eyes. “About what?” Baby asks. 

Lou kisses her. 

Baby’s mouth is soft, but Lou knows it was a mistake a heartbeat later, when Baby’s entire body stiffens. Lou pulls back to meet Baby’s wide-eyed stare and feels immediately, thoroughly awful. 

Something like pain lances through Lou’s chest, like she was just run through with one of Declan’s shitty flea market swords. _I always knew Baby’s face would hurt me,_ she thinks, a little nonsensically, and something in her shrivels and dies.

“I don’t—” Baby starts. 

“No,” Lou says. “No, that’s—I’m—sorry. I’m just going to—” and she flees to where Rivers is warming up with Mullen in the bullpen, even though both Mullen and Rivers give her dirty looks for it, and gnaws on her lip as she listens to Rivers whisper to herself, and does not let herself look back at where Baby is undoubtedly still standing at the dugout railing, watching her. 

They win the game, 5-2. Lou spends a decent chunk of one inning waiting at second with the knowledge that Baby is surely watching, and tries not to let it get to her; when Isaac hits a double, a beautiful grounder straight past the first baseman, Lou puts her head down and sprints home. When the fire alarm goes off and Betsy kicks over the lantern, Lou puts out the fire herself, leaping into the stands and dousing the burgeoning blaze with a judicious application of the nearest available hose of Royal Crown Malort and her own jacket. 

When the game is over Lou keeps her head down in the locker room, doesn’t join in the post-win celebration like she normally would, just pats Betsy on the snout and hurries out into the parking lot so she can catch the bus—she doesn’t want to ride Axel home, not tonight. 

“Wait!” Baby shouts. “Lou! Wait!” 

Lou freezes, one hand on her firefighter bus pass. She glances over her shoulder, and Baby is making their way out of the player’s entrance, hopping on one foot as they pull fire pants over their blaseball ones, suspenders dangerously stretched. 

Baby comes to a screeching halt a foot away, looking—Lou doesn’t know. His expression is confusing, hard to get a read on. 

“Lou,” Baby says, sounding—Lou doesn’t know how to get a read on his tone, either. “I—I talked to my parent, and they—I mean, they’ve always been very heavily involved in my romantic life, it’s kind of—part of their whole thing, but. I—they wanted to know who was kissing me before the game, and I—I didn’t remember. That was. That was you, right?” 

Lou swallows. 

“Yeah,” she says, glancing away. “Yeah, that was—that was me. Sorry.” 

“No,” Baby says, a little pained. “No, don’t be sorry. I just—I wanted to _remember_. And I didn’t.” 

“Oh,” Lou says. She looks at Baby. Baby’s eyes are sharp, like they always are, and her gaze is weighty; it steals the breath out of Lou’s chest. “You—” 

“Yeah,” Baby says. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Lou says. 

Baby holds out their hand. “I wanted to remember,” they repeat, a little softer. “So. Tell me the future, Lou Roseheart. Are we going to do that again? So I can remember, this time?” 

Lou puts her hand in Baby’s and feels their strong, broad fingers lace with hers. “I don’t need to see the future to know the answer to that,” she says. “Yeah. Yes.” 

Baby’s grin is blinding. “Good,” he says. 

And that’s that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out @blaseballcares on twitter!


End file.
